A Finger in Every Pie

Immersion Blender and Friends: Now with an Update!

I'm desperately trying to re-create the early morning conversation I had with G yesterday.  I know I'm missing something, and of course, he doesn't remember a word of it, having been more or less asleep at the time.  I was lying in bed, you see, ruminating on my rendezvous with darling Jen, aka Bakerina, who was to meet me at Broadway Panhandler for their massive kitchenware yardsale.  "Jen's getting a Waring Blender," I muttered aloud. "I don't love our blender, but it works.  Can I justify replacing it?  Is it worth it not to have boiling hot soup shoot up out of the blender at me?"  "Mmmmph," G responded, rolling over and snorting a few times. 

"I know!  I know what I need and can actually justify!  Not a blender, but an IMMERSION BLENDER!"  Having unintentionally raised my volume in my excitement, I had caused G to roll back in my direction and actually open an eye.  "An immersion blender," he mumbled sleepily yet agreeably.  "That's a blender that you use in the bathtub? While speaking a foreign language in the country of its origin?" 

"Not exactly," said I, playing along.  "It's actually a long electric stick thingie with a rotating chopper thingie at the bottom."  "Ah, yes," he said.  "One of those Sharper Image dildo-like thingies with bladelike teeth."  "That's the very thingie," I said.  "But I promise to use it only in the bathtub whilst speaking in tongues." 

At this point, it was time for me to get up and meet Jen for our tryst.  G, sporting fellow that he is, roused himself to drive downtown with me and spend the day working on his laptop in my brother and SIL's apartment, so as to be available to drive back uptown when I returned laden with new kitchen accoutrements. 

The siren song of a large seasonal sale is seductive, there is no doubt.  The problem is that other New Yorkers find it seductive as well.  I reached Broadway Panhandler a few minutes before their opening time, where I was greeted by the sight of a line that stretched around two sides of a city block.  Jen joined me a few minutes later. 
Fortified by company, we steeled ourselves for the wait, which was considerable -- but then proceeded to pillage the sale.  A lovely Braun Multiquick immersion blender at a fantastic price was first into my basket, where it was quickly joined by many friends.  These included a Cuisinart Mini-Mate chopper/grinder; a Sitran sauté pan (Bakerina-recommended); a Benriner mandoline; Wusthof paring knives, chef's knife, kitchen shears, and knife sharpener; fluted crème brûlée dishes;  and many, many other goodies.   I can't talk too much about it, or my brother will be by to leave a comment along these lines:  "My sister went to the Broadway Panhandler Yard Sale, and all I got was this lousy Microplane grater..."

Once we had given our items to someone who gave us a ticket, we then realized that we had to go inside to pay -- which entailed waiting on another interminable line.  When we finally emerged, poorer but bathed in the triumphant glow of New Yorkers who have been among the first hundred or so to crack a sale, we reckoned we'd spent approximately 2 1/2 hours at BP, only 1/2 hour of which was actually spent shopping.  Yes, by now you've done the math -- the other two hours were line-waiting time.  I mean, I'm the person who went to Trader Joe's a couple of weeks ago, saw the line down the block, and resolutely turned around, saying "I refuse, I REFUSE to wait in line to get into a supermarket, specialty food store, whatever the hell it may be."  I never go to a movie on the opening weekend any more.  I'm over crowds and linewaiting, supposedly.  But the pleasure of catching up with Jen made the time fly by, in truth.  And once I got home with my bag of loot, I was rather pleased.

As we finally left the store, we realized that we were both desperate for refueling.  Le Pain Quotidien was just around the corner, and a very good choice it turned out to be.  I never cease to wonder how an international franchise like this one can maintain such amazing quality control.  My Cobb salad special, Jen's Tuscan platter, our homemade minted lemonades, and the bread which accompanied everything were all simply stellar renditions of their kind.  I honestly believe that all other Cobb salads must wish they were the Cobb salad at Le Pain Quotidien.  I also think their service has improved greatly, at least at the Soho site.  I've sometimes felt that the service at various of the NY branches was just a tad snooty, but there wasn't a hint of that this time, even in the very heart of Manhattan's own Snootyville. 

All in all, a fine way to spend part of a holiday weekend.     Today was spent recuperating, lazing around, going to the movies, making a good dinner.  But the weekend's not over yet -- nor is the sale.  I've been feeling a vague regret about not having gotten the Waring Blender.  Anyone in the mood to wait in line? 

This Just In: Yard Sale Update!
Be it known that I actually DID go back to the sale today, Monday, Memorial Day, after my tutoring gig.  Here's the deal. There was NO line outside.  There was a miniscule line inside.  They were cooking free hotdogs on the barbecue, serving up lemonade, and had a sheepish sort of guitar guy with a primitive sound system hooked up.  Quite different from the sharks-in-a-feeding-frenzy killing field of Saturday, I must say.  I did, however, miss the glorious company.  And naturally there wasn't as much stuff as on Saturday, but there were still plenty of goodies.  Yes, I got the blender.  And yes, it's *tangerine*, a far too kind way of denoting the garish shade of my new blender.  My only comfort is that now Bakerina and I have matching blenders.  We just have to remember not to wear them to the same party.   

Welcome To Our Backyard

"Everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds."
    - Professor Pangloss, from Voltaire's Candide

"We must cultivate our garden."
    - Candide, from Voltaire's Candide

We were planning to go to Vermont this weekend to enjoy a little rural interlude and, incidentally,  re-stock our nearly-depleted stores of Cabot cheddar cheese and cider jelly and baking staples from King Arthur.  But the season of final exams is upon us.  This means my services as a  tutor to private school kids are much in demand at the moment, so I decided to stay home this weekend and make hay while the sun shines -- even if it is pouring down rain at the moment. 

Staying home on a holiday weekend really isn't such a bad thing, especially when lots of other people leave the city and things are a bit less crowded.  Extra especially is this true when the Conservatory Gardens of Central Park are a mere three blocks from your home.  "Welcome to our backyard," we like to say when we bring visitors for a walk in the gardens.  We usually enter at the front gate, so you can see the expanse of lawn with the fountain at the end as you enter the gardens.

I won't only be tutoring this weekend.  We have tentative movie plans, a Greenmarket to shop, and the Broadway Panhandler's moving sale to attend.  I'm also pondering the possibility of a lovely afternoon stroll, and perhaps even a couple of sandwiches and a jug of iced tea and some fruit and books and blankets to accompany us into our urban backyard.  Stay tuned.

Drive-by Blogging -- Or Not?

It's not that I haven't been cooking.  In fact, I've been cooking up a storm.  But as always, I've also been doing everything else (school-consulting/teaching, taking stultifying administration classes for which they have us doing huge, undoable, unreasonable, useless projects, and in addition, tutoring for a little extra pay-puh, as the kids would say).  On top of that, there's always helping out with dear old dad and keeping our own home fires burning.  It seems to me that sometimes it comes down to a choice between cooking or blogging about cooking/eating.  Then, of course, if I choose blogging over cooking, what will I blog about? Endless meals of cheap take-out?  I think not.  So cooking it is, but fear not.

I hereby initiate drive-by blogging at AFIEP for those periods when I don't have time to post, but can give you a glimpse into our (sadly very messy) kitchen. 

Here's last weekend's bread, a delightful recipe that I found on the back of the package of no-less delightful cereal (available from King Arthur) called Pompanoosuc Porridge (and yes, of course, the name of the porridge has occasioned a flood of puns and merriment on the part of G).  The porridge is a lovely mix of white bulgar wheat, finely chopped steel-cut oats, and flax seed.  It's absolutely my new favorite hot cereal.  Once cooked up, you use a few cups along with KA's own White Whole Wheat Flour and bread flour to make these crunchy yet voluptuously wholesome loaves. 

Last weekend saw the beginning of a huge spate of baking, which has continued, as you'll see.   I didn't take any other pics, but you'll simply have to take my word for it that in addition to the bread, I made two of Nigella's Dense Chocolate Loaf Cakes (using strong coffee instead of hot water in the batter), a large pan of Sour Cherry Streusel Cake (made with last year's sour cherries from the freezer) and a batch of what I've decided to call No-Brainer Bars -- a sort of quickie chocolate chip blondie.  These last are such a fabulous cheat that they deserve their own post, so I'm saving the description for another day.  All of this largesse was distributed to friends in Connecticut, where we went for Mother's Day lunch, as well as to my 8th grade advisory group and my fellow sufferers in my administration course (watch, I'm going to get dooced and thrown out of the admin program for talking about how terrible it is.  Especially since it's a federally sponsored  program, and they never tire of reminding us that we're getting our administrative licenses for FREE, whoo-hoo.  I, of course, would argue that the cost of listening to most of these blatherers for FOUR HOURS every Tuesday evening is all too high). 

Like everyone else who tries to eat somewhat seasonally, if not entirely locally,  I've been making quantities of asparagus lately: roasting, steaming, what-have-you.  Last week I steamed three large and blooming bunches, and decided to turn some of these sweet green spears into another dish.  They found themselves nestling into this herb-and-vegetable-laden springtime risotto of arborio rice, leeks and shallots simmered to creaminess in vegetable stock, then melded with lightly steamed carrots and zucchini and a mince of fresh mint, basil, rosemary and parsley.  Since it's so chock full of health-giving anti-oxidant veggies, this risotto couldn't possibly be bad for you, could it?  What's a bit of rice (and a little butter and cheese and a tiny dab of créme fraîche) going to do to you, after all? This dish was originally intended for the last IMBB/WBW, to be paired with a delightful wine, Amethyst Winery's  Malvasia Bianca Floralia 2001.  But since I haven't yet been able to get ahold of the wine, and I couldn't get it together to post about the risotto in time, here it is in drive-by format for you.

Or not.  I'm noticing as I write this that it's not really a drive-by at all -- in fact, it's taking me quite as long as a regular post.  I guess maybe it's a drive-by in the sense that it's basically a condensed version of what would have been several longer posts. 

Today's baking binge consisted of two items.  First up was a eau-de-vie de framboise-scented poundcake, laced with berries, recipe courtesy of the lovely Molly at Orangette -- my only modifications to her recipe being that 1) I do preheat the oven, since mine doesn't seem to behave well unless I do, even with a slow-baked cake, 2) I use the framboise instead of kirsch, and 3) I add an extra teaspoon of baking powder, since, due to my uncooperative oven, I've had trouble in the past with poundcakes that didn't have quite enough leavening.   Next up was a large panful of layered bar cookies.  My hunch is that the poundcake will go over big on Tuesday night in my admin class, helping to pass time by sedating us all with butter and sugar during the interminable 4 hours.  The bar cookies will be beloved by my 8th graders -- although I'm sure there will be some crossover between the two.  The bars are part invention, part ancient history.  They're based on the cookie known variously as 7-Layer Bars, Hello Dollies, Magic Bars, and even Boy Scout Bars.  You know the one -- graham cracker crust, nuts, chips and coconut in various arrangements depending on the recipe, with a can of condensed milk poured over all to glue it together while baking.  I've been making them since I was in high school, when they assured instant popularity among the munchies crowd.  A few years ago, I began boiling the cans of condensed milk to caramelize them before pouring them over the layers, which turned it all to lovely caramel.  Today I took it a step further, and replaced the graham cracker crust with one made of Famous Chocolate Wafers.  Graham crackers are beloved things, and I'm as fond as the next person of a good graham cracker crust -- but a chocolate wafer crust beneath the crunchy nuts and coconut, caramel chewiness and melting chocolate just about did me in. 

Even G, official hater of coconut although recent convert to coconut curries and rices, ate one.  "That's really yummy," he said.  "Really? You like it? It has coconut in it," I said with the customary smugness I use whenever I've tricked him convinced him to eat something he claims not to like.  He looked at me fondly, with infinite patience, as one might look a deeply beloved but somewhat slow pet.  "Yes, sweetheart, I know,"  he said.

Conquering Coconut

 

It all started a couple of months ago when I realized that Zarah Maria and Martin were planning to spend far too brief a time in New York during their fairly pretty comprehensive tour of the US.   I simply couldn't allow my city to be given short shrift. 

 Zarah and Martin at Kalustyan's 

For certain questions, it's wise to choose your time carefully.  Sometimes early morning (when your partner is  still curled in fetal position and his consciousness level is questionable) is best:  "Honey?"  "Mmmphh."  "Can we have some food bloggers from Denmark -- well, actually, a food blogger and her boyfriend -- come stay with us at the beginning of May?"  "Mmmph. Sure."

Later that same morning:  the aforementioned partner is now both vertical and ambulatory, and has even had coffee, but this doesn't necessarily mean that the level of consciousness is particularly elevated :  "Sweetie? Do you remember that I asked you earlier if Zarah and Martin could come stay with us?"  "Uh huh.  Sure.  No problem." 

Sometime during the afternoon of the same day: "Did you ask me before if some people could come stay with us?" "Yeah, Zarah and Martin from Denmark.  You said yes."  "And you know these people how?"  "I know Zarah through food blogging.  We've been corresponding for quite a while, actually."  "Wait.  Wait.  You mean you've never actually MET these people and you've invited them to come stay?"

Despite repeated mutterings and dire predictions, Zarah and Martin (after an annoying mishap detailed by my dear chum Bakerina here) did indeed come to stay, and a lovely time ensued.  I was deeply embarrassed by the fact that I didn't cook for them even once during their 3 days with us, but in my own defense, I  a) had just returned from San Diego, and b) had to immediately start a rather challenging work week.  Food shopping and meal planning were not in the cards, nor were extended guided tours of the city. 

What we were able to offer was housing, and a couple of  evenings together, which turned out to be very lovely.  Conversation and laughs never lagged, even for a moment.  On their last night in the city, after a walk-through of Kalustyan's Market and a spin through the closing farm-stands at Union Square's Wednesday Greenmarket, we took them to a little Moroccan dive in the East Village, Cafe  Mogador, a place I've seen through many changes and of which I've remained a devotee.  Tuesday night we were all up to our own devices, since G was working late, I had a late class and we wouldn't be around at all until bedtime, more or less.   Zarah and Martin showed up even later, whereupon we learned that after yet another inexhaustible day of walking the length and breadth of Manhattan, they'd taken themselves off to Les Halles, where they bathed in Bernaise sauce and enjoyed peerless frites with their steaks.  But on their first night, Monday, ah Monday, our guests insisted on hosting us at the Bread Bar, which as readers of this site know, is one of my chosen places and G's absolute, world-without-end favorite restaurant, at least in NYC.  It was on Zarah's must-try list for their New York visit, so off we went.   

I always think that good restaurants know how to strike a balance between keeping enough of your favorite tried-and-true treats to draw you back, as well as enticing you with new things to try.  This time there were several new cocktails as well as new dishes on the menu.  We ordered lavishly, drank, ate and got acquainted. One new item (or at least new to us) was the Cauliflower Caldin, described as a Goan coconut curry.  I hesitated, knowing G's distaste for coconut.  I've broken down many barriers in the past few years.  Successes include rhubarb, lamb, leeks, and yogurt-based sauces.   Still in the column of hated foods are raw onions, avocadoes, olives, mushrooms, and, I had thought, coconut.  But G affably agreed to this dish. 

It dawned on me that recently he's eaten and enjoyed coconut-based curries in Thai restaurants, as well as my own coconutty version of mulligatawny soup, and the coconut rice that Luisa brought to my attention.  When I teased this out with him a bit, he told me that he still doesn't like coconut itself:  the texture, the shreddiness, the getting-caught-in-your-teeth quality of it.  But he now likes the flavor of coconut or maybe coconut milk, at least in savory dishes.  So much so that as he was scraping the bowl of cauliflower coconut curry at the Bread Bar,  he suggested that I make something like it at home.  "This would be good with that coconut rice you made a while ago," he said.  He was asking for two coconut dishes?  In one meal? 

Last night's dinner was the first time I've done any real cooking in more than a week.  My own bastardized version of Nigella's chicken tikka was on the menu, as was some spiced naan we picked up at Kalustyan's.  But the piéce de resistance was the cauliflower coconut curry, served over coconut rice. 

My only question is, if we can conquer coconut, can mushrooms be far behind?  Sadly, I think I know the answer. 

Tacolandia: Stalking Fish Tacos in San Diego

"Hola, Julie-girl, Julie-mama, where are you?  Estás on my side of the country yet?"  I listened to the message from my darling Betty, still in San Francisco, slated to arrive in San Diego the next day and meet up with me at the  educator's conference.  I called right back, and found her at home in the Mission, getting ready for the trip.  "Hey Betty-girl, Betty-mama, estoy aqui already en San Diego.  When do you get in?" 

In our usual Spanglish mix, we synchronized watches and coordinated times for her arrival the next day.  We wouldn't have much time together at this conference, since we weren't rooming together; most of our time was already accounted for, up to and including obligatory conference lunches and dinners.  But we figured out a time to meet for drinks and planned to sit together at the dinner.  Then I got down to business. 

"Mira, Betty.  There's something I need to know.  Where should I go for a good fish taco?"  I was a woman on a mission.  I'm misquoting, but I know it was Calvin Trillin who said something along these lines:  for travellers, the most important phrase in any language is "Bring me your local specialties."   My version of this is to identify the one local dish I really want to try when I'm on a brief conference jaunt in a strange city.  I then use whatever tiny allotment of free time I may have, whenever it may fall, to hunt my quarry.   

Betty probably thought I was going to ask her a question about my presentation for the conference -- even though I've done quite a number of presentations, I generally develop a little stage-fright, and have to run things by my colleagues in order to ease my nervousness.  But this time I had other things on my mind -- or as I like to think of it, I had my priorities in order.  Once I'd had my fish taco, I'd be able to concentrate on the other reason I'd come to San Diego. 

"Bueno, girl.  It shouldn't be problematico; pues, you're in Tacolandia." I should be able to find a Baja-style fish taco almost anywhere in San Diego, Betty assured me.  Although our hotel served reasonably good food, with several Mexican options on the menu, fish tacos were not among them.  I would have to go out hunting.  Fortunately, I was signed up for a writing marathon/tour of San Diego's Gaslamp Quarter the next day.  Although there were no branches of the famous Rubio's in that area, I was assured that there were plenty of other fish taco venues.   I certainly hoped so;  I had never had an authentic fish taco, and was determined not to leave San Diego before this delicacy had passed my lips. 

It didn't take long for me to become tired and vaguely cranky during our Gaslamp tour the following day.  It occurred to me that my mild fussiness was traceable to the time difference.  Whereas it might only be 11:00 a.m. in San Diego, it was 2:00 in New York, well after my normal lunchtime on an active school/work day.  Apparently my imperious and demanding tummy had not reset its clock.  So my pal Raquel and I set off for the Tin Fish, where we had been assured that fish tacos were on the menu.   The Tin Fish, located conveniently near the clean and pretty trolley system, is a fast-food fish restaurant, only...different.  First of all, everything about it is immaculate, from the facility itself to the helpful and pleasant servers.  The seafood platters we could see being brought out to customers made our mouths water.  The lovely dining patio is sunny and flower-filled.  The restaurant has an efficient system whereby you stand on line, order and pay for your food, and then take a numbered sign on a table-top stand out to your table.  Your server finds you by number, and brings your delectable, inexpensive and huge lunch right to your table. 

I had two tacos -- a grilled halibut, and a classic fried fish, which was cod.  Each one featured impeccably fresh piping hot fish on a soft warm corn tortilla, bedded with crisp shredded cabbage and sprinkled with cheese, pico de gallo and drizzled with a white sauce, which was either crema or mayo-based.  Whatever it was, it was surely fine.  Messy, yes, as street-food-style treats tend to be, but incredibly delicious and satisfying nonetheless.    Now I understood what all the fish taco fuss was about -- why there were "the taco wars", fish taco-related arguments about whether cheese is appropriate on a fish taco, or should it actually have guacamole?  If it's not fried, is it really a Baja-style taco?  Can you actually get an authentic Baja-style fish taco in San Diego, I began to wonder, or did you need to go to Baja...

Suddenly the sound of an approaching trolley broke into my fish taco reverie.  Raquel and I knew we had to get that trolley in order to get back to our next series of conference commitments.  Stuffing the last bite of crisp fried fish into my mouth, I ran for the trolley, a fish taco virgin no longer.  My San Diego mission had been accomplished, and the rest of the conference, including my own presentation, would be a breeze.